


For A Minute There, I Lost Myself

by PunishedKonami



Series: Something Approaching a Superheroverse [2]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bar, Gen, Light Angst, Original Universe, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 14:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunishedKonami/pseuds/PunishedKonami
Summary: An Avenger walks into a bar, finds a familiar face.





	For A Minute There, I Lost Myself

“Say, aren’t you a bit too young to be here?” said a voice a bit too loudly.

A black-haired man whipped his head to the left at the voice, away from the empty shot glass he was staring into. A few stools down sat a man in a black shirt and pants, looking at him as if he were familiar to him. A ring glowed through the shirt. He recognized that glow anywhere. The man’s eyes narrowed. “Never expected you to come willingly to Long Island, Stark. Isn’t this place a bit too pedestrian for you?” he replied.

Tony Stark rose from his stool and walked towards the familiar man’s, the former’s eyes studying the latter’s face. The black hair that Peter didn’t have, as well as the glasses -- or rather, frame of glasses. “What, am I not allowed to exist in a public space? You used to go on about that all the time,” he said as he sat down. “Like some sort of pinko. Anyway, show me your I.D.”

The man blinked, stiffened. “And why would I do that?”

“Kid, I have ordered many fakes over the course of my lifetime. I wanna see if they’ve gotten better.”

His eyes shifted about. The bartender was absent, and of the few patrons left, none were staring their way. “Did management make you usher, or something?”

“Usher of whether or not you actually are Peter Parker, yes.”

He clenched his jaw. He then sighed, muttering, “That’s not even what ‘usher’ _means_ ,” then reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. Opening it, he jerked an I.D. from one of the pockets and placed it onto the counter, sliding it over to Stark. He took it in his hands, studying it.

“Ben Reilly, huh?”

“It’s just an alias.”

“Oh, sure.” Stark turned the I.D. in his hands. “Different sort of material than the real thing, still,” he muttered. “And still as thin.” He ran his thumb over the lettering. “Everything printed on.”

Ben reached forward, gripped the I.D., ripped it out of Stark’s hands. “Say again, Stark? I don’t think _Albany_ can hear you yet,” he hissed as he put it back in his wallet, then putting the wallet back in his pocket.

“I was just saying that they _still_ suck after all these years. Don’t go to that vendor anymore,” he said, wagging his finger, “Probably don’t go to any of them. They’re all bad.”

“Only kinda recourse I have,” he muttered. “How did you find me, anyway?”

“SHIELD sources. Can’t say much else than that. NDAs, all that fun _legal_ stuff. You know how it is.” Stark said as leaned back against his stool. “Also, question.”

Ben looked at him, crossed his arms.

“You’re _not_ Peter Parker, are you?”

Ben looked away then, the fingers on his hand closest to the counter beginning to drum it. “I’m not so sure.”

Stark sighed, leaned forward slightly. “Alright, then. So what is it? Amnesia? D.I.D.? You fall off the Empire State Building on your head while I wasn’t looking?”

“No,” Ben said. “No, it’s -- I don’t know. You ever wake up one day and think to yourself, ‘I’m not who I remember myself to be?’” He then shook his head, waved the thought away. “Stupid question, of course you don’t.”

Stark said, “No, I don’t.”

The bartender walked up to them, then. “Anything else either of you need?” she asked.

Ben opened his mouth; Tony was always faster. “Red wine, neat and well,” he said as Ben closed his mouth. “Same thing for my friend.” Ben opened it again -- “And I’m not taking no for an answer on that one,” Tony said to cut him off. The bartender nodded, then circled around the bar, out of sight.

Tony watched her go, only returning to reality when Ben asked, “Wine?”

Stark looked at him after rolling his eyes, lifting his hand and letting it fall back onto the flat-top of the counter. “Come on,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ guys who think wine is a girl’s drink.”

Ben shook his head. “Never took you for a wine guy, is all.”

The bartender came back with two identical glasses of red, setting them down by each man. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said before she walked off, with Ben thanking her as she did.

“So what are you then? A beer guy? Beer sucks. Anyway.” Stark took his glass and lifted it. “To health?”

Ben blinked. “Sure, I guess,” he said as he lifted in in turn, and brought it against Stark’s. They both imbibed then. Stark barely sipped at his glass, as Ben tipped it towards him, gulping it down. Ben set the glass down a bit too hard on the counter, nearly was about to spit the wine out before he forced himself to swallow, cupping his mouth with his hand.

“You alright there?” Stark asked.

Ben removed his hand, took a breath. “Strong,” he said.

“You don’t swallow that stuff down,” he said, “you sip it. You’re supposed to pace yourself.”

Ben sat up straight and said, “Guess I’m not used to that.”

“Well, _get_ used to it, then,” Stark said. “Anyway, the impostor syndrome. What’s that all about?”

Ben stiffened again, then opened his mouth. “I just -- wake up one day in some warehouse,” he began. “Must've been kidnapped, but I have no idea how. Then I get told I’m a clone. And a defective one at that. But that can’t be right. It couldn’t have been.”

“Why so?”

“Because I have all of _his_ memories. I remember almost everything he went through. Everything he ever fought for. Everything he lost.” He lifted his glass and sipped his wine, this time, before setting it down on the counter again. “There shouldn’t be a reason why I don’t think I’m him.”

“Yet there is.”

A pause. Then Ben said, “I don’t… _feel anything_ . I remember everything, but I can’t feel how he felt about it because _he_ was the one doing those things, not me. I don’t feel like him. Just feel as fake as my I.D.” Another sip. “I tried to find him. We fought. He beat me. ‘S part of why I’m here now, on this island, and not in the city.”

“What made you realize you couldn’t feel like he did?”

Ben swallowed. “After we fought,” he said, “I was swinging about. I saw him on the street, kept my distance. He was with his boyfriend -- or _my_ boyfriend, at least was how I thought of it. They were hugging and holding hands. I should’ve felt _something_. Anger, or jealousy, or something. But I didn’t feel a damn thing.”

Tony put a hand up, saying, “So wait a sec, you were watching them do this? Like, following?”

Ben shook his head again. “Of course not. I didn’t see them for more than a few seconds before I left.”

Tony put his hand down. “So that’s why you doubt yourself.”

“That incident alone? No. But then it all started to hit at once. Feeling is knowing. How could I be Peter Parker if I can’t feel what he feels? If I can’t know what he knows?”

“Another question. Actually more of a comment than a question.”

Ben rolled his eyes at that. “What?”

“So, let’s assume you aren’t Peter Parker. Who cares?” Stark asked as he shrugged his shoulders.

Ben narrowed his eyes. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one thinking this.”

“No, it’s a genuine question. Do you _have_ to be Peter Parker?”

“Even if I _don’t_ have to be, I still have all these memories. They’re _all_ I have, right now.”

“You don’t have to live like him, even with ‘em. Live for you. Live for Ben Reilly.” Tony snapped, pointed at him. “You said you have his memories. That means you have his smarts, too. You employed?”

Ben blinked rapidly. “At a bodega, but --”

“Call ‘em, tell ‘em you’re putting in your two-weeks, then don’t show up. I have a research assistant gig in the city you might like.”

Ben stared him in the eyes, hard. “How much?”

“Fifteen per hour.”

“Twenty.”

Stark stiffened. “Twenty?” he asked before taking another sip of wine.

“You can afford it,” Ben said. “You, who bought a huge skyscraper for your CEO-slash-lover or whatever. Hell, considering what I have? What I _know_ ? You should be paying me at _least_ twenty-five.”

Stark swallowed his wine. “You smart son of a bitch,” he said. “Fine, twenty. Housing’s provided also.”

Ben grinned. That grin faded quickly. “Uh. There’s a small problem.”

“What?”

“I technically don’t exist. No documents, no Social Security. Hence the fake.”

“So don’t many other people. We have ways around that. You start the day after tomorrow. You know the address.”

 

* * *

 

_Live for Ben Reilly._

Until Stark said it, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. The very notion that he could be someone else was ludicrous. As he flung himself through the air on the webs, he looked at his costume -- the hoodie from which he fashioned it -- and then it didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

“I dodged it all, didn’t I?” he said to himself. “I didn’t want to be like him. And now… now I’m not him. Don’t think so, anyway.”

He zipped into an alleyway, walked towards a dumpster then ducked behind it, taking off his mask. He then opened the hoodie, shoved the mask in a pocket, then closed the hoodie again. He walked out from behind the dumpster and towards the sidewalk. He turned once he was on the concrete. Looked up at the skyscraper before him, then at its logo. Stark Industries.

“Question is, who am I now?” he asked himself before stepping through the door.


End file.
